


The Talas Conference at Andor

by ToasterBonanza



Series: Piper at The Gates of Dawn [1]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek - Various Authors
Genre: Civilian Life in the UFP, Cultural exchange, Friendship, Gen, Hybrids, Inspired by Music, Klingon Culture, Music as a Language, Post-Canon, Vulcan Art and Aesthetics, Vulcan Culture, academic conferences, infatuation at first sight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:07:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28294314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToasterBonanza/pseuds/ToasterBonanza
Summary: Story 1 in "Piper at The Gates of Dawn"A young composer making his first professional journey outside the bounds of the Klingon Empire, Doh'Val's previous experiences had been only in childhood through his human father's family on Earth. Fate--or perhaps just a meddling acquaintance--brings him to meet another artist who shares his dream: there must be something greater for both of them beyond the cultures they find themselves locked into.
Series: Piper at The Gates of Dawn [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2072472
Kudos: 1





	1. First Contact

“Sorry, what was your name again?” The chatter of excited artists and academics drowned out all but the most enthusiastic voices. A constant hum and buzz always accompanied the Talas Music Conference, a crackling of raw creative energy in the air. Andor's Academy always took great pains to stage a deeply fulfilling conference for the hundreds of performers and presenters, but this time they had outdone themselves; both the Academy and the conference had completed a long cycle, making fertile ground for a jubilee festival. The likes of an unknown musician getting a performance slot was normally difficult and this time downright impossible. It could make said unknown musician feel reluctant to make decent conversation.

“Oh you.” The Betazoid academic gently patted the musician's shoulder. “It hardly matters.” Flamboyancy never escaped this species, evidence by the flourish of a decorated hand which waved away the question. “Come meet my colleague.”

Through the crowd they wove, deceptively-strong fingers firmly curled around his bicep and tugging him along, bunching up his finest white linen shirt. They skirted dozens of small banquets available for the attendants, a cacophony of smells accosting them. Courtesy was different here and nothing like on Qo’Nos; people drop their culture's mores about personal space. His guide apologized to no one, and not a single attendant took offense.

Out on a domed verandah, the crowd thinned considerably as did the noise. It was only the first day of the conference, as good a time as any to meet new colleagues and new connections. Like every domed balcony, this one served as yet another art installation. The placard nearby declared the dark swirling patterns above an interpretation of a cloudless night based on the artist's dream. Just like stepping into a painting. If someone came from behind and stabbed him to fulfill a once-forgotten blood oath, he would only be thankful to see something so majestic and breath-taking in his final moments.

“My colleague and collaborator, Vudic Jalal.”

He never thought such a blue could exist outside of art, like someone had taken the entire sea and poured it into this man's two eyes.

“Your name, sir.” His tone indicated that he had already asked once.

“Doh'Val.” He hastily added, “Son of Carl.” A Vulcan. The day was hardly over and he was speaking to a Vulcan, a species his own people had warred with on and off for centuries, whether on their own or as the Federation. He never expected to meet one.

Those eyes that he could write opera about narrowed for a second and then widened carefully. He detected something unusual in his name. “...Carl.”

Doh'Val set his jaw, ready to teach the man a lesson that snide remarks to a half-Klingon are still snide remarks to a Klingon. They said that outside the Empire, other species had a dim view of their culture and may find ways to disrespect him. “Yes. My father.”

The man paused. “I have an uncle by the same name. Mother's family.”

The last thing he expected to hear. A half-Vulcan with a half like his—human. What were the odds? “Are you—”

Some other attendant butted in, greeting Vudic and taking away his attentions for a second. The Betazoid, meanwhile, pulled Doh'Val a few steps away. “Well? I say this is going quite well for everyone involved. You two have a lovely time. Keep an eye on my colleague for me.” How well could it possibly be going? They had only exchanged their names.

And suddenly they were back facing each other. Now he had a few moments to evaluate the man before him. There was something so reassuring and familiar about his face despite the angular Vulcan features and pointed eyes. “Have we met? You are—I, forgive me; I have seen your face, I think.” His skin didn't possess the same sickly pallor expected from his species, a feature which only added to Klingon stereotypes about them: they sat around all day, thinking empty thoughts and never raising a finger to do even an ounce of hard work. Not this man. A healthy, light terracotta brown like the hilt of his mother’s ceremonial knife, only a few shades lighter than his own cinnamon-bark skin. His short black hair curled, creating a wave-like fringe around his face.

“If you have come to the conference before, you must have seen a presentation of mine or merely saw me in passing.” But those intense, narrow eyes wandered up and down. His tone wasn't dismissive; he too probed his memory in an attempt to place where they had met.

“This is my first time at the Academy. I am performing as part of the conference.” He twirled a lock from his trim beard around his finger. “Are there recordings of your lectures?” Could a hologram ever attempt to imitate those eyes?

“Only those which I have given here. They are not widely distributed like lectures from the Riza Conference Series, however; the Academy has agreed to only provide them to individuals upon request and at the consent of the lecturer or performer. I would have recognized your name.” A slight turn of his stoic mouth indicated disappointment. Thus far, he'd yet to find the moment when they'd met before. “You must travel to Earth often. Your father, yes?”

“Earth is very large.” He smirked. “You can calculate the odds of us meeting once and then once again here.”

He didn't expect a chuckle but not a deadpan response either. “I could but it would be neither useful nor _frumple_.”

Perhaps he had misheard? Doh’Val tried to form a response, wondering what he meant by that last word.

Those narrow, painted eyes closed for a moment. The man was embarrassed. Or perhaps mildly frustrated. “The computer translators here—” He stopped, glancing away as if he'd find the words he wanted written on the swirling ceiling. “May we move to the Solarium?”

As they walked, he raced through all possible languages they might share. He didn't even know “Long Life and Good Health” or whatever it was all of them said. Did the man know Klingon? Some common trade language? Vulcans always seemed so consumed with their own culture that to think one would bother learning anything about another culture—

“This is a calibration. Please respond if you understand.”

He stepped back, catching himself from the shock. “You speak Federation Standard?” The moment the sentence left his mouth, he realized how stupid it sounded. That he _also_ spoke it was much more notable.

The man tilted his head like a small dog. “Your manner of speaking. What language did you learn first?”

“Klingon. My father is Newar, outside Kathmandu, and I learned his language because he wanted me to be able to speak with his family. Federation Standard is my third.” What idiotic small talk! He wanted to ask deep questions but could not even quite think of what they would be. Another hybrid! Another like him! A hybrid!

“Did the children on your planet ever ridicule you for how you spoke?”

A too-familiar question, but he wanted to answer. “For a time. A few punches and the teasing stopped.” He needed to smile less. He looked like a simpleton.

Practiced stoicism responded. “How very good for you.” He saw behind that measured face was a deep well of emotion. The human side, no doubt. Vulcans—so he was told—complain all too often about the emotional dramatics of humans, and he could only imagine the war at play when the two species are occupying the same body. How curious that the human part of this man threatened to unleash a volcanic temper was the same which gave Doh'Val gentility and patience.

Silence between them. Others prattled on everywhere else. “There is a flavor to how a someone speaks their natural tongue which translators hide. I like it.” The man's distinct accent must have been confusing the computer. A strange concoction of Vulcan-ish and something so familiar yet out of reach, a sing-song lilt like his pitch was following the crests and troughs of a sine wave. It wasn’t Nepali but something like it. Little scraps of childhood memories floated to the surface of his mind like the voice of his late great-grandmother. Doh'Val wanted to hear more, and he was quickly learning how to flatter the man.

“A pluralistic view, not one shared by many.” The tightness showed his restraint to say more. “Tell me about what you have prepared for the conference.”

“A series of short pieces based on ancient sacred music from Earth. Few recordings are here today because the style was only practiced in monasteries and no one outside the monastery was allowed to hear it. A blend of my dual heritage.” He felt his fluency falter for a moment. “I am interested in the challenge. We want to preserve certain forms of music, but these are forms that the culture only allows certain people to hear, let alone learn. We have to balance both considerations.” Convincing his family’s patron to let him perform his compositions for the conference was easily one of his greatest accomplishments to date.

“Fascinating.” That sounded like the closest he would ever hear to high praise. “What do you wish to convey in these pieces?”

He was talking too much. Answer the question quickly. “I think I could better explain if you came to the performance.”

“I expect that I will find the experience enlightening.”

The Betazoid appeared once more and got a few words out before remembering where they were. Oh no. There must be some way to get rid of this man. “We go,” he said with such a heavy accent that Doh'Val could barely make out the words.

“My apologies, but my colleague and I must depart.” Was that the sound of remorse?

They started away. No, no, don't go. Doh'Val found himself shouting, “Please join me for a meal this evening!”

All the conversations in their vicinity ceased for a second, conference attendants suddenly turning their attentions. Curiosity, apprehension, amusement. Maybe they were waiting for a fight to break out. The silence pained him.

Vudic made some odd gesture, and suddenly everyone turned and went back to their business. “I cannot join you this evening. However.” He pulled out a small, intricately decorated token. “This is one place where lecturers gather. The organizers found these were the easiest way to tell us where we can refresh ourselves. After the lecture series ends each day, you will find us there. You can expect us tomorrow.”

They left. The crowd closed in behind them. He tucked the token into the breast pocket of his leather vest; it was the closest one he could find to his heart.


	2. A Little Lesson on Vulcan Art

The symbols next to the entrance matched those on the token. The doors slid open before he was ready, revealing a dimly-lit lounge with tiny lights on a deep black ceiling. Andorians must miss the stars. Blue, green, and purple light came from the underside of the tables and bars while soft red light emanated from the tabletops. The lighting, however, was the least interesting part of the lounge. Each piece of furniture was a unique sculpture, but the collection together gave the impression of standing among nebulae. Was it possible to be dizzy and centered at once? More conference goers, more performers. Music played underneath the murmurs, and he quickly realized that it was in fact just a few musicians playing together for fun. He should've brought his drum.

Vudic and his friend sat dead center in the room. “I see you have found us at last. I am Dr. Dael Gwargas in case you forgot, but Dr. Dael I prefer,” said the Betazoid. He didn't wait for a reply before turning to flag down a server.

“I take it you have found the conference most informative thus far.” In the red light, the Vulcan’s eyes were the color of a fresh bruise. “You perform tomorrow, as I understand from the schedule.”

He smoothed out a few locks of wavy black hair near his ridges, remembering how he had over-oiled before leaving his quarters for the evening. At least he had remembered to mask his usual scent with cologne. He needed to keep his wits; even the finest taverns couldn’t measure to almost-gaudy decor of this place, and it was overwhelming. “Yes.” Talking wasn’t the same now with the translators on. They did too much meddling, correcting for imperfect grammar or pronunciation. “Have you presented yet yourselves?” Vulcans, he was told, lacked true stage presence despite room in their culture for theatre. He wondered if he would find an exception to that rule.

“We are still preparing. However, it is very specialized and may provide little benefit to you.”

He leaned in. “Please explain.”

“Oh, cool that hot head of yours,” chimed in Dr. Dael, setting down a glass of bloodwine before their guest. “We study the musical experiences of telepathic species. Any other conference, we’d present to non-telepaths. This place is a rare opportunity to speak with other telepaths in our field.” His decorated hands traced the rim and shape of his glass. “Describing how telepaths take in music compared to non-telepaths—” He trailed off, sighing dramatically. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

His friends back home warned him of the gross haughtiness among telepathic species. “Tell me when you present. I will attend.”

Disdain. If he could provoke any sign of emotion in a Vulcan, he’d already won. It was his people’s nature to play these games. Those bruise-colored eyes turned serpentine. “I see that my acquaintances in Starfleet provided accurate accounts: your people still prefer to take unnecessary difficulties.”

“Excuse me for a moment,” said Dr. Dael with a chuckle and a flourish, floating away to greet someone who had just walked in.

Silence. Again. Perhaps he should down his drink and leave. He felt foolish dressed in his best, as if his present company would care. This was turning into a waste of time. “Do you know why so many people covet attendance to this particular conference?” Vudic kept a level tone. His eyes were like slits.

He didn’t care for other people’s reasons. His was one that Vudic wouldn’t understand. He squared his shoulders, now eager for a confrontation. “The breadth of reach, of course.” A conference within Federation borders often had more to offer due to greater cultural exchange. That had been the case he built to the family’s patrons as Doh’Val persuaded them to fund his attendance.

Was that a sigh of exasperation? “Statistically speaking, approximately fifty percent of what is presented or performed at the Talas Music Conference will never be published or recorded. That is why the recordings made for each conference session are so well _gardenia_. Protected.” He took a sip from the black liquid in his glass, ignoring the computer’s mistake. “People presenting here are given the greatest assurances that no one will steal their work, and thus much of what you see is creativity in raw form. This is not the end point for someone’s work but the beginning. Dr. Dael and I are attending this conference because here, we can collaborate with other telepaths. Your offense is ego-centric. If you came here with the intention of seeking praise instead of comment, you would do best to go home.”

Doh’Val bristled. He had labored for months not just on the compositions he had brought here, but also on a variety of other works all for the purpose of showing the family patron that his talents could be expanded outside the Empire’s borders. He endured sleepless nights and eschewed all indulgences, sometimes writing music he hated but that he knew his patron would adore. This man had no idea what he suffered. He’d better finish the bloodwine he had here and drink the bottle in his quarters. He should practice and forget this evening. His human side stopped him from plunging his knuckles into the man’s teeth.

Something in his expression softened after their moments of agonizing silence. “However. Everyone who attends the Talas Conference possesses talent and a desire for collaboration. The Andor Academy take care with this conference because the Academy would like some attendants to come back as instructors and researchers.” Another sip. “An artist who can perform here is an artist of potential and opportunity. A competent performance here adds a great deal to one’s reputation.” A pause. “I read over your biographical information. I sense that it is lacking, but what I know of your work is fascinating. Attempting to blend two disparate cultures in a meaningful manner takes skill.”

The comment took him by surprise, considering how little he had provided when the conference asked him for personal details. “I did not think your people were in the habit of flattery.” Praise from a Vulcan? His friends would accuse him of lying.

“We are not. I am simply stating the truth.”

He wrapped a few curls of his beard around a finger, considering the man’s words. “It is appreciated regardless.” There was hope for an understanding, after all.

And yet again, silence. A different silence this time, easier. The musicians in the corner created music that they would probably never hear again. In his mind, he cycled through every usual conference topic but none of them seemed interesting enough to bring up. He wanted to simply sit with this man and drink, contemplating what kept him from leaving.

“Did you already exhaust every topic of conversation?” Dr. Dael was standing at their table with someone new. Doh’Val didn’t care who. “Well, I will stay here for quite some time but Doh’Val, Son of Carl. I believe that this is your first visit to the Academy. Vudic, show our new acquaintance the more intriguing aspects.”

One eyebrow kicked up on his face as if to say, you can’t be serious. “I think that you would make a superior guide, Dael.”

“I would but—” he turned mid-sentence, calling over his shoulder as he walked off with his new companion. “Oh no, I’m quite occupied and unavailable.”

He traded an uneasy glance with the Vulcan. “A walk would suit my taste.”

“Then I shall be your guide.”

Outside the building—they had been in the one which housed visiting faculty—the translators were mercifully off. Finally they could talk without computer interference.

“What do you wish to see?” A chance to hear that wonderful accent again.

He needed to measure his words. The domes above had switched to something abstract, calming, and dark to represent the night. “I have never seen any examples of Vulcan art.”

It was the most intense emotional response he had provoked during the whole evening. A sharp breath, dark brows raising, and the slightest tint of olive blush in his face, as if scandalized by the revelation. “I shall guide you through the current collection on display.”

A short walk in silence and they strolled into another building. Maybe he could hear the man’s unadulterated voice later. No lights on in the corridors. “Did you break us in, Vulcan?”

“A likely response from a Klingon but—dwe—so there is no need to consider the consequences.” The translators kicked on halfway through his sentence, drowning out the middle. The lights flickered on, dimmed to reflect time of day and how empty the building was. “This way.”

They came into a vaulted room. No, there was more off around the corner of this room. An entire wing dedicated to Vulcan art. He reminded himself to breathe. “I never thought this much art from your culture could ever exist.”

“I assure you there are hundreds of other pieces.” The room itself, compared to everywhere else they had been, was designed to let the art stand out. Take away the art and they’d be standing in the drabbest, dullest area Doh’Val had seen his entire stay. “We believe in efficient use of space so you will notice that all art is displayed in the traditional way: measured the ideal space such that one can see the art on its own while allowing more art into the space. Humans always criticize our galleries for being ‘cluttered.’ I disagree.” The tempo of his speech had picked up considerably.

“You are an artist too--”

“Not for visual media, but I do have a fundamental understanding of all Vulcan aesthetics as part of my training. My specialty is auditory which I expect you _fing_. Know.” Those blue eyes seemed intent on attempting to read his very soul. “Now, please consider this piece here on the wall.”

The piece in question was no more than Doh’Val’s arm-span, perfectly rectangular. An impeccably crafted slab of black rock with tiny colored stones set into the slab. It created a series of abstract shapes which Doh’Val couldn’t decipher, but he admired the colors and the craftsmanship. “What is it?”

“It should be obvious, but perhaps it is not to you and it clearly is not so I will explain.” The words flew from his lips. “This is an ancient art form on Vulcan used to illustrate—” he stopped suddenly for a second, “—it is not easy to explain but I can assure it is closely tied to Vulcan _philophian_. Philosophy. If you have seen any of the sacred symbols of our culture, then you will understand how this is related. Now, please consider this next one.”

A sculpture taller than both, terracotta tone like Vudic’s skin. No indication of what exactly it represented, but it had pockets and curves and all manner of textures decorating the piece. The sculpture had a fluid quality, seemingly impossible to have come from a planet with so little water.

Vudic placed a hand on the sculpture. “The artist went blind at a very early age which is why her art is so unusual compared to the standards of Vulcan aesthetics; this provided her with a unique way of learning which led to this piece. It provides one with all the different _detendeds_. Textures. Of the common geological formations on Vulcan with the intent of teaching one to distinguish between each by touch.” He grabbed Doh’Val’s sleeve as if he were a child that need prompting, placing his hand on the sculpture. “Vulcan aesthetics require that all art be functional and extremely robust such that it can withstands our challenging climate.”

Demanding, isn’t he. Doh’Val exercised his human patience and didn’t backhand his guide for accosting his person without permission, particularly in such a condescending way. He rubbed his palm on parts of the sculpture as instructed, not clear on what he should gain. “What about the piece on the far wall?” He saw only one side of it peeking out behind a corner.

Vudic looked up to where he had pointed, eyes hard like sapphires. With a kind of composure that looked unnatural even for such a stoic person, he marched to a console near the entrance of the gallery and audibly pressed a few buttons. A few beeps later, he resumed in their shared tongue with his natural voice. “The single most controversial piece of art ever produced by modern Vulcan culture.”

A toothy smile spread over Doh’Val’s face. He didn’t wait for the man to join him. “I must see this.” Perhaps at long last a narrative? Oh, maybe a depiction of the Vulcans winning a key battle? Oh sure, they were peace-loving now but not always. Death of a lover? His smile widened, and he picked up his pace. Was it finally a depiction of the mating rituals that Vulcans were so overly secretive about? Expertly dodging the priceless pieces, he hastened to the corner. What tales he would spin for his friends back home—

He stopped short. “This—Are you certain?”

The piece in question was roughly half Doh’Val’s size in height and wide as his arms. It was a painting. Of all the things that could be controversial, a painting. The subject, furthermore, was a fine light sepia Vulcan woman, deep brown eyes and hair piled high in what he assumed was some ancient style. She wore a rose-colored dress and modest jewelry. The background looked like her dressing chamber. From where he stood, the most remarkable thing about the painting was how lifelike she looked, even appearing lit from within. It was beautiful, but he could see nothing “controversial.”

“This is the one. Unique in Vulcan culture without exception.” His words slowed, reverence creeping into his cadence. “Titled ‘Self-Portrait of the Artist During the Andorian-Vulcan Tensions.’ According to the agreed-upon story, she had created art similar to what we see in this gallery. The first one we saw was one of her earlier works. But then one night, when a large number of people associated with Vulcan High Command were gathered at an exhibit of her work, she hung up this piece. According to the witnesses, she announced, ‘This is Vulcan. This is the teachings of Surak. This is Logic. This is Truth. This is Beauty.’”

“I like this woman.” An obvious act of defiance against whatever the High Command and whatever they stood for. “What did they do?”

“Imprison her.” Notes of outrage were in his tone. “In her home, they discovered a room where she made this art, designed to let her paint. A means of using water to make pigments and apply them the treated skin of an animal. An unthinkable act on our planet. They declared her work antithetical to Vulcan values. They believed her a spy or imposter; they could think of no other reason why she would make this art. She had created other pieces. Family portraits, representations of everyday life—” he trailed off for a moment. “They were like nothing any Vulcan artist had ever created.”

In war, one has to consider every option. His schooling taught him much about the aggression and meddling that the Vulcans had taken shortly after contact with Klingons as well as other species. But this woman seemed very important to Vudic. He’d keep quiet on his thoughts. “They destroyed her art, didn’t they? What about her?”

“Yes. They kept her for many years. They preserved this piece as evidence of her crimes. In the midst of the overthrow of the High Command and the creation of the new government, they forgot to free her. She gained her freedom, but she lost her old life. She took to weaving clothes for the family that protected her legacy and a life of spirituality.”

He stepped closer, now able to see the individual brush strokes, including a place where the artist had covered up some imperfection. “I do not see her name anywhere.” He didn’t know Vulcan script and just asked to see what the man would say.

“T’pporah. She never signed these works. They were against everything in our culture’s aesthetics.”

“Because she did not make it from stone?” He was still acquainting himself with the idea that Vulcans had any notion of beauty or art. It was merely a portrait!

He hesitated, brows furrowing. “You do not understand.” He gestured to everything else in the gallery. “We use stone, cloth, computer parts, pieces of our planet. But our art serves a function. It educates. Our art is to be touched, heard, and smelled as well as seen. What the artist chooses to convey and how it is conveyed indicates so much about the artist. But this.” His attention traveled all over the painting as if unable to focus on one part.

“One can only view it.” He was catching on, right?

Vudic’s cadence picked up again. “It is without function. It is fragile. And perhaps its worst aspect of all: it is ego-driven. The only statement that comes from this piece of art is ‘I exist.’” He pointed back to the first piece they encountered. “It is illogical. She created the art. Therefore, we knew that she lived.”

Doh’Val found himself growing fonder of this woman he’d never met who not only perplexed his guide but used her art to transgress against her society. “For something you find so distasteful, you know so much about it.”

He kept his focus on the painting, sounding distracted. “I find the piece, the subject, and the history of the piece fascinating but not distasteful. Furthermore, imprisoning her was illogical and beyond the High Command’s reach. The Academy teaches a class on this one painting.” He then added to himself, “I still do not have the opportunity to take the class.”

It was so quiet. He could hear the blood moving through his ears. He went to sit down on the bench behind them which squarely faced the painting. His black clothes were flat against his polished onyx hair.

“She looks lonely.”

Vudic was still standing. He tilted his head, examining her features. Some whispered noise of intrigue. “Yes. I fail to recognize the expression from time to time.”

“Is any display of emotion also against Vulcan aesthetics?”

His blue eyes were soft when he turned to him, even personable. Doh’Val couldn’t help leaning forward in anticipation. “It is permitted under certain circumstances. Our philosophy states that one must suppress emotion. Our art states that in order to suppress emotion, the artist must meet that emotion, greet it, and convince it to submit to logic.”

Doh’Val slid over to make room, gesturing to his offer. “Does the gallery close anytime soon?”

“I explained earlier—Ah. The translator.” He gingerly took the space on the bench. “Galleries like this one never close. We may stay as long as you wish.”

Everything which had transpired during the evening was worth suffering through for this singular moment. He met Vudic’s gaze. “Tell me more about Vulcan aesthetics and about this painting.”

“To understand our art, let me tell you about our culture….”


	3. A Promise, A New Beginning

The last day of the conference. All lectures and performances had ended the previous day and throughout the conference, the organizers had taken pains to entertain their guests. But today, the Academy hosted a veritable feast day. Drinking, music-making, sparring, and even meditating for those who preferred sobriety and quietude. 

Doh’Val was drunk. And earlier in the day than he had intended. He’d gorged himself on bloodwine, partially from the bittersweet end of his stay and partially from his inability to resist the frivolity of feasting. Vudic served as his crutch and guide through the dark, narrow corridor. 

“My quarters are closest.” He showed no difficulty supporting the Klingon, even if Doh’Val’s stocky body had certainly gained weight from days of over-indulging. 

“Joyous,” slurred Doh’Val. He smiled too much when he drank. Other Klingons would ask if he were stupid as it was the only reason for him to smile like that; luckily, fighting was simply part of Klingon tavern culture and they’d get their dues. Andorians were similar and made more sense than the other species. “I always wanted to see a Vulcan’s dressing room.” 

The door slid open to a room that looked more like a large, empty closet. “Stand here.” He propped Doh’Val against the doorway tapping out a command on the nearby console. 

Panels on the wall shifted open and unfolded, soon furnishing the room with a bed, a desk, and a wedge-shaped chair. A cubby also opened up, one just large enough for the room’s occupant to sit down in for accessing the room’s main console. No replicator in the cubby, but a space for preparing beverages and simple meals. The door to the bathing area popped open, revealing another sliding door that he suspected separated the toilet.

“Efficient. I expect nothing less.” No translators in here. He’d just spoken Klingon. Good, they could hear each other for once and he could switch to what they both knew. The bed was maybe five paces away and it was too far. He slid down, stretching out on the floor. “I will stay here for some time.” A hard floor was always comfortable when he was this drunk. 

An exasperated sigh. And without warning, Vudic was squeezing himself into the remaining space on the floor at his side. 

Doh’Val couldn’t turn his head without accidentally pressing his nose against the other’s face. Say something he can understand, idiot. “What are you doing? Should you not be doing work or whatever it is that you Vulcans do? Meditate maybe? I assure you I will be perfec—ohm—perfectly alright.” He sequestered a very loud belch. 

He felt the cat-like Vulcan fidget against his own bulk in vain to create more space. “This room is quite small and you are quite large. You take up much of the floor. Moreover, you talk.” His voice soured on the word, “Often.” He shifted again, gently elbowing Doh’Val in the process before resigning himself to this grievous mutual invasion of each other’s personal space. “Nevertheless, I will not look down on you, even physically. The strain to my neck would be detrimental. You are also my equal. I invited you to my quarters until you are well. Thus, logic states that I must join you. It is my best course of action. We will converse in this manner until you are well.” 

If only he could turn to see his face and those blue eyes. For a moment, Vudic had taken the words right out of him. “...You are very kind.” 

The silence that often came between them felt easier each time it occurred. Over the course of their time at the conference, he grew to realize that long pauses were a natural part of Vulcan conversation. They were like Klingons in that they only spoke when they felt that they had something worth saying. Klingons, however, thought they had a lot more worth saying. 

“You leave for home tomorrow?” He wasn’t sure how much time had passed. His head was clearing now even if the drunken haze still lingered. 

“Dr. Dael and I have another conference to attend first before we both return to our homes.” They were so close together he could feel Vudic’s rib cage moving with his breath. 

More silence. He focused on the other’s breathing. Deep, controlled. Rib cage expanding, contracting. There was more than just quiet surrounding Vudic; there was a stillness that seemed to follow him. Like a third person in the room. 

“I will miss our time together.” Doh’Val had wanted to say it earlier; at the time, he kept shoving bloodwine into his mouth to stop himself. Too personal and needy. 

Perhaps it had been only a few moments before Vudic responded. Waiting felt like knives against his knuckles. “In the time that I have known you, Doh’Val, I have found a regard for you. I will think of you often in your absence.” 

“I pride myself on maintaining friendships with people, however far away they live.” It played a small part in how he got to the conference in the first place. An interplanetary friendship would be a lot harder, but he couldn’t let this man slip through his fingers. 

“I also give due diligence to such associations.” 

Good enough. No need for childish questions about whether or not they’d keep in touch. He was too drunk to stop himself. “I lied in our first meeting.”

“I do not understand.” Confusion in his voice.

“You asked why I came to the conference. I lied to you.” Would it make a difference? He had told no one else. He couldn’t stand keeping the truth to himself much longer. “I am here for the glory of the Empire,” he slurred with derision, “the only reason any Klingon does anything.” 

Nothing. Any second now, Vudic would ask him to leave and never return. Instead, he asked, “But did you gain insight and acquire knowledge?”

“More than ever before.” 

“Then you used your time wisely.”

Why wasn’t he asking Doh’Val to go? “But you said—what you said about flattery. Or praise. I am here—” He was losing his words. “The glory of the Empire and everything for one’s people—hmph, as if it needed any more….”

“My knowledge of your culture is narrow, but from the time we have spent together, you do not appear to engage in the same fanatical devotion to your government. This is unlike other members of your species. Thus, there are the reasons you provided to your people—your government, I presume—and the personal reasons which are known only to you.”

“So, you do not think me a fraud?”

“I have observed nothing dishonest in your behavior. At your performance, you engaged critics with skill and subtlety rather than aggression.” More than anything, Vudic sounded as if he found this line of discourse mildly inconvenient.

The floor was too hard. Finally, he had sobered up a bit. Sitting up, he offered a hand to Vudic. In the dim light, his eyes were a blue that could swallow his soul. “I suppose we should go back. Dr. Dael will want to know where you have gone.” 

They were now standing up together. “That is not the case.” A tweak of his eyebrows, something that always happened when he weighed conflicting ideas. “Curiously, Dr. Dael told me that he expects to be unavailable this entire evening. He told me that we would prepare for our next conference while traveling. Meanwhile I should—” he paused, shaking his head. “Enjoy myself.” 

And only now did the pieces fall into place. Every time he joined the two of them, Dr. Dael found an excuse to go elsewhere. He’d barely had a chance to speak with the man outside the first day they met. He hesitated before saying, “I do not think Dr. Dael is fond of me.” 

“I assure you, that is not the case. Dr. Dael is highly logical. It is a different logic from mine.” Vudic took a seat in the cubby, turning to the meal prep area. “His different form of logic makes him a good judge of character.” 

“Then how does he judge me?” 

From the cubby area came two cups of tisane. “His judgment is thus: a collaboration between us would deeply benefit both people.” He handed off one cup before taking a seat on the narrow bed.

Doh’Val now recalled Dr. Dael’s other actions. The Betazoid always found a way to be nearby and then immediately insisted that he join him and Vudic for whatever meal was appropriate for the time of day. Even when he declined due to other engagements, Dr. Dael would insist on him arranging to meet later. “A teacher and a musician.” He took a seat on the opposite end of the bed, now able to abide by their respective culture’s personal boundaries. “I see nothing that we could create together.”

“You are mistaken.” He silently sipped the hot drink, impeccably able to eliminate the usual slurping noise most species couldn’t help making. “I play the ka’athyra. It is not an unusual skill on my planet.”

Doh’Val felt his vision darkened for just a moment. He felt his ridges suddenly pulsing. “Is the instrument here?” His skin was so tight and hot. He let the boiling tisane blister his mouth to wet his throat. 

A panel next to the bed slid open, and from it Vudic produced the Vulcan instrument as well as a small, ornately decorated drum. “Dr. Dael acquired this during his stay and insisted I present it as a gift to you. I intended to invite you to my quarters after we dined to retrieve the gift.” Laying the drum next to his guest, he began strumming the ka’athyra to check its tuning. “I do not know his intentions behind this gesture. He thinks highly of you; it would be more efficient if he presented it to you himself.” 

“Perhaps this is a—what is the word—flirtation? No. An encouragement.” The drum responded to the softest tap, creating a deep sound like what he imagined the gods would have made when creating the first Klingons. “A tool for collaboration.” 

“When traveling, I practice as part of my morning routine and before I retire for the evening.” He appeared absent-minded as he plucked at the strings, warming up his hands. “Perhaps we should attempt the collaboration that Dr. Dael insists that we do.” 

Doh’Val took a gulp of tisane which burned his tongue and the roof of his mouth. “How shall we proceed?” 

An expression of deep contemplation settled on his face; even in simple matters, he weighed every option. “Let us be constructive. As my guest, I would like you to begin. Play what is—” He stopped suddenly, whispering under his breath to himself. “Play what you enjoy. I will join in.” 

A daunting and nearly impossible task at the moment. “Simple.” He cradled the drum under his arm where it fit like it was made for his body and his alone. Take a breath. Focus. He should start with something from his performance. Instead of looking at his partner as would be polite, he looked at his drumming hands to keep from breaking his concentration. 

He heard a bit of plucking, the sound of someone finding their melody. Then it came. It was like nothing he’d ever heard, and yet something in it was familiar. Had he heard Vulcan music before? He glanced over to see Vudic with his eyes closed like in meditation, rocking slightly with the rhythm. He played soulfully. 

No uncomfortable silences or unnerving pauses in this conversation. He spoke effortlessly with his music where words had failed him. 

This was what the two hearts felt when the gods created them. This is what Creation sounds like.

They were creating their own ephemeral universe, one that would disappear as soon as the song ended.

He’d never had a spiritual experience until now. 

They brought their song to a close, and their eyes met. Something in Vudic’s face was different; he’d felt it. He didn’t merely think it or infer it or do all those ‘logical’ revolutions of his species. He felt. They felt the same thing. 

Vudic spoke at last. “Doh’Val, Son of Carl.” He kept his voice low. “Do you sense that your people’s culture has remained unchanged for a long time?”

“Yes.” His throat felt so dry. “We have new inventions and we explore the stars, but we write the same stories.” They were caught in a mutual hypnotic trance.

“And make the same art.”

“And play the same songs.” 

Some people in conversation walked down the hallway. 

“To this day, no one on my planet has created art like that of T’Porrah.” His eyes were like blue flame. Doh’Val couldn’t look away. “On Earth, visiting my mother’s family, I did not understand how a planet could have so many differing and distinct cultures. Then I understood that this diversity of culture was one of Humans’ greatest assets. We founded the Federation and brought Humans into galactic society. But our culture is stagnant.” 

Doh’Val didn’t realize he was leaning closer. “It is so hard to create new art in the Empire. Everyone just wants to hear the same songs.” 

“Or see the same art.” 

How much he would give to stop writing the same horrible, stale canticles that his family’s patron had an endless appetite for hearing. “What are your reasons for coming here?”

Vudic looked into the middle distance. “To experience the same diversity in art that people on Earth take as given.” 

“Then we desire the same thing. To bring a new era to our cultures.”

Those cutting blue eyes. “We do.”

His hand grabbed the other’s bare forearm, unable to stop himself. “Dr. Dael said collaborate. This is what he meant.” 

Vudic audibly inhaled but never broke eye contact. 

A singular moment. In Doh’Val’s younger days during a stay on Earth, he’d foolishly been outside during a storm. A bright, blinding light and blast so loud all he could hear afterwards was a high whine. His blood felt like acid in his veins as it swept through, faster than fire. Klingons never felt fear. He was half. It was the only time he’d ever felt truly afraid. In the instance he grabbed Vudic’s arm, the same fire roared through his body for one terrifying moment. His hand locked up. 

Blue eyes like the wine-dark water running thick with enemy blood. Impossible, and yet it was. “I will not accept half-measures.” For a man with a voice like silver, it was suddenly rough and gravelly. “We must commit ourselves to this cause with every fiber.” 

He couldn’t let go. Damn it, he couldn’t let go. But he would not panic. He would fear nothing. They were on a precipice. He would jump into the abyss. “To my last breath.” 

“To my last breath.” 

Finally, his grip released. Had that been his new friend’s doing? 

“I have identified how we will begin.” Obviously, it was his original idea to pursue this alone. “Computer, play recording; file name—” something in Vulcan. Music began.

Doh’Val reeled. “I—what is the species of the singer?”

“No one knows. The colleagues who have heard this hypothesize that they belong to the same clade as Andorians, but my personal hypothesis from vocal analysis is a defected Romulan, perhaps in hiding.” 

“They—the harmony and lead are the same person—” What could this be? “I never heard this kind of range.” 

“The instrument was identified as originating in the Gamma Quadrant. The instrument in question has the kind of unusual tuning of music originating from that quadrant. Here, listen to the upcoming measures.” 

He felt chills. “I never thought one could write such a harmony. Have you identify the musical tradition?” 

“That is what makes this person fascinating. The foundation is rooted in Bajoran music. But there is no Cardassian influence and very little expected counter-influence. Instead, this recording has Tellerian influence. Another has elements of Andorian and Klingon. A third heavily favors Human and Trill elements. I have collected ten, but one of my colleagues has secured as many as thirty. More importantly, new ones have been discovered within the past year.”

Quite a mystery. “I believe—” he couldn’t quite place it at first. “I—Are you so certain about your Romulan hypothesis? The high notes remind me of a shrill sounds a Ferengi makes.” 

“Ferengi is improbable. The recordings originate from both currency-based and goods-based societies. Furthermore, the songs cover a variety of subjects disconnected from known subjects in Ferengi music. I have attempted a full vocal analysis via computer, but not every recording yields the same result. In some cases, the recordings are so degraded that results prove inconclusive.”

“Are they all in one language? I do not know this one.” 

“No, which is also fascinating. I have yet to identify all of them. We have an artist who is mixing style, subject matter, language, and elements; and yet, no one knows their name, their identity, or even where they came from.”

They had no choice in the matter. “We must find this person. Convince them to come into the light.” He would need to write a whole opera to convince his family’s patron to fund this expedition. He would do it without hesitation for this opportunity.

There was a twinkle in Vudic’s blue eyes. “I am in contact with a musician who has procured a recent known recording.” He touched a few keys on the nearby console. “A Seu Minjaral. I have never met the man and only know him by reputation; he was one of the first from Bajor to attend the Talas Conference since the end of their conflict, dedicating a lecture and short course to Cardassian influence and counter-influence on Bajoran music.”

Doh’Val felt a flutter of giddiness. “He could be our man.” The Occupation still resonated and rippled through the musical world even after many years; with time had come the stories of valor and sacrifice about the people on Bajor who had laid down their lives to preserve their culture. To meet a real Bajoran! A man like this would undoubtedly inspire his own race to greater artistic heights. 

“Most probable. A man such as him would know how to construct music that satisfies these parameters. Many of my colleagues even suspect that he may be one of many participating in this secretive project, but to what end I cannot discern.” 

“Do you have a picture of him?” 

A few other Vulcan commands to the computer before an image popped onto the nearby screen next to the meal prep cubby. “A recent photograph provided by a colleague who meant him.”

Their person of interest became obvious. Amid a group of humans stood a willowy Cardassian. No. Not quite. Nasal ridges. Gods, was he also a hybrid? Doh’Val couldn’t tell. He instead transfixed his attention on the wedge-shaped scar covering his left eye, so large it extended to his hairline, along his nose, and down to the corner of his mouth. The eye must be a fake, fractured into black and white pieces. No smooth areas, either; strange zigzagging patterns snaked through the area. Like he had been branded. That scar begged for questions. What great battle did he earned that scar from? “How soon will we leave to meet this man?” 

Vudic touched his shoulder. “There are still plans to make.” A wisp of a smile. “Exercise patience, my friend. I will see to all of our arrangements after my next conference.” 

He beamed. A worthy journey with a worthy friend. The glory he had always dreamed of. “I will wait. Impatiently, but I will wait.” 

The Vulcan strummed his ka’athyra. “We will also spend many hours together on our journey. I propose that we learn more about each other through music.” 

“A fine idea. But this time, you start first….”


End file.
